In the limo ride back to our hotel, the kids talked excitedly about meeting Chevy Chase. “He said he had three kids, too,” Salvador said, laughing. “His wife said, ‘No, dear, we only have two.’” Stella and Jelli fell forward giggling. I missed the whole exchange sitting upstairs in the quiet of the hotel room before the party, and was glad the children had gotten to meet someone they admired.
Early the next morning, I sat in the living room, silently meditating on my heart, asking God's Spirit to fill me with peace. Rain pelted the windows of our villa at the Sunset Marquis Hotel. Rivers of water spun down the Hollywood street, banking into a gutter beside the driveway. The sound of drops against the window tossed an echo inside my body, steady and forceful like a drumbeat. Salvador, Stella, and Angelica slept in the rooms upstairs. Carlos was in our bedroom dressing to leave for sound check at the Staples Auditorium. I pondered the past and the future, not knowing what the day would bring. Twenty-eight years of being married to Carlos, being part of his musical life, being a mother, business owner, and spiritual seeker—yet I was still searching for my own place in the world.
The phone rang. I picked up the receiver to hear our publicist's voice.
“Carlos is getting dressed, Michael. No, he's not giving any interviews before the telecast.”
Plop. What was that? Rain dripped from the ceiling onto the staircase. “Michael, you won't believe it. There's a leak in our room. This place is falling down around us. I'll see you later.”
“Who was it?” Carlos stood in the doorway.
“Michael Jensen. I told him no interviews.”
“Thanks, muñeca.”
Carlos wore a knee-length black jacket and matching Italian wool pants. His face gleamed from the aloe vera lotion he had smoothed on after shaving.
“You look great,” I said.
He bent down, his arms circling my back. “Thank you.”
I stretched my arms around his neck and hugged him close.
“Are you coming with me?” He leaned away and raised his right eyebrow.
“No. The girls and I are having our hair and makeup done here. We'll come with Salvador after sound check.” I knew he was worried because I wasn't dressed. Carlos was never late for anything, much less the Grammys where the band would perform “Smooth” with Rob Thomas. His anxious mood was not due to the anticipation of winning an award, but because he was playing—that was his passion, and he was pulsing with adrenaline.
He walked back to the bedroom. “Okay.” Carlos knew I would arrive at the show on time with the children. He never had to worry about my being where I needed to be.
After Carlos left for sound check, the children and I finished getting ready and rode in the limo to the entrance of the Staples Center. We walked inside the cavernous arena to the dressing rooms, feeling as if we were backstage at a show on a Santana tour. The band was talking and eating, waiting for the ceremonies to begin. My chocolate-brown sequin formal hung in a garment bag, and I found a small room to change in. I was just slipping my feet into my gold heels when Carlos was called to go into the audience for the pre-telecast show. Of ninety-eight Grammy categories, only seventeen awards are televised, the remainder given in a sparsely attended afternoon program. Blues, classical, country, gospel, new age, and jazz receive Grammys at this time, and Carlos and I stepped onto the royal blue carpet leading to the folding chairs in the front row to watch the show. The first category in which Santana had a song was “Best Instrumental Composition” for “El Farol.” It went to Don Sebesky, and I wondered, What if we don't win any? Carlos and I clapped while producer David Foster kept the program moving. Our friend Wayne Shorter received “Best Jazz Instrumental Solo,” and we hooted with love. The next category that included a Santana song, Carlos's name was called as recipient. The roll was on. Six Grammys went to Santana in the pre-telecast program. Carlos and I both felt light-headed. Each time he mounted the stairs to receive his award, years of studio sessions, sound checks, thousands of concerts, and scores of musicians who had played with Carlos and traveled on buses, trains, and planes were receiving acknowledgment through him. Musicians receive Grammys at different times in their careers; Carlos had received the “Blues for Salvador” Grammy years earlier; there are ten Bammies from the California awards show on the bookcase at home and numerous international honors. With this recognition we felt that we could expose younger listeners to the sounds of Tito Puente, Gabor Szabo, Flora Purim, John Coltrane, Miles Davis, Kenny Burrell, and Mahalia Jackson— brilliant composers and musicians who are not played on pop radio but who hold treasure chests of notes and rhythms that transport us above daily struggles and lift us into sublime joy.
During the break before the live telecast, ticket holders were let into the arena, musicians walked the red carpet, and Carlos and I stayed in the dressing room with the band. We had brought our entire staff to the Grammys because I felt they deserved to participate in what they had also toiled so hard to produce, coordinate, and promote. When we were taken to our seats, they sat high above us in the balcony, out of our sight but in the effluence of the night's adrenaline. The three hours went by like a streaking comet, and Bob Dylan and Lauryn Hill walked out to read the last nomination: “Record of the Year.” Bob opened the envelope and pointed at Carlos when he said, “Smooth.” Carlos stood and grabbed my hands, attempting to pull me to my feet. I pulled back, thinking he was trying to take me onstage, and we had a mini tug-of-war. My role had been behind the scenes, where I liked it. The last place I needed or wanted to be for my soul to shine was onstage. What I care about is establishing a spiritual foundation of open communication, integrity, and kindness to support the music. When I finally stood with Carlos, he kissed me and then climbed the stairs to accept the final Grammy of the night. I applauded with everyone else in the audience, my body trembling from the intensity of the attention and the long day of smiling.
It was an exhilarating experience. We hosted a small, private after-party at the Conga Room, avoiding the record companies' extravaganzas, and returned to our hotel room to a pile of gifts. Quincy Jones had sent ten small bottles of champagne engraved with one Grammy nomination each. A tray of giant chocolate-covered strawberries sat beside a bottle of champagne from the hotel. It was too early in the morning to make another toast, and Carlos was still on an adrenaline high. He sat looking at the television screen, but I suspected he was recalling the scenes and words of the day, tumbling end over end through his head. I climbed into bed, deliciously spent and full of dreams. All we had set out to accomplish, from believing we could self-manage our company to signing with Arista, had culminated on this spectacular night of winning nine Grammys. Supernatural continued its magic, selling over 25 million copies worldwide.
In August, after the Grammys had arrived and been placed on shelves in our home, Dad, at ninety-one, grew visibly weaker. I could see his body shutting down as he leaned to the side in his wheelchair. Mom had tended to his needs for ten years since his stroke, making sure he took every recommended vitamin, driving him to physical therapy, and reading favorite Bible verses to him daily. In the beginning, she had even tried to push his guitar into his arms, although the stroke had erased seventy years of music from his mind. Tirelessly, she spent every minute she could with the love of her life. The last few months, Dad had not been able to speak well at all—his voice was shaky, and the aphasia had taken away his ability to match the words in his mind with what he was experiencing inside. He often shook his head in frustration.
Carlos and I were out of town when Kitsaun called to say, “You'd better come home. Dad doesn't have long.” We caught the red-eye, solemn, remembering Dad on the tennis court slamming the ball at us, his pure tenor voice singing “Danny Boy” or “SK Blues.” We arrived home at 6:40 A.M.
Salvador and Stella were getting ready to leave for school, having said tearful good-byes to Grampy the night before. We hugged, and I let them go—as I would have to let Dad go. Jelli awoke and ran into my arms. She w
as nervous but courageous as she watched me walk out the door.
Mom stood looking out the kitchen window when I arrived, her body a wisp of grief as we embraced. Dad lay in his bed, the artery in his neck bulging and receding.
“Hi, Dad,” I whispered, and laid my palm on his forehead, thinking, God Bless you, great person, my father, my friend. Ginette, the health care worker, was sponge-bathing Dad. Kitsaun and I carried warm water, wiped the floor, helping however we could. My sister's serene strength and benevolence emanated throughout the room, providing a berth for my sorrow.
Ginette spoke: “Your dad is going. Talk to him.”
“It's okay, Dad. We'll take care of Mom. You had a magnificent life. It is okay to leave.”
When he gasped his last, it was an enormous, holy moment that closed an era. I stood looking at my father's shell, the Spirit already transcending heavenward. Memories of summer trips to Chowchilla where the sun fried us to a crisp; Sundays at church in Oakland with Uncle U.S. preaching until perspiration poured down his face; Aunt Daisy's rich gumbo, fried chicken, and sweet potato pies, her tiny waist cinched into dresses from Lanz, a box of violet gum in her “pocketbook”; the image of my mother and father standing together with luminous light in their smiles as they guided my life—these all clutched my heart. Saunders King, sophisticated, elegant, dressed in Italian suits I loved to buy for him, bent over his Gibson guitar, hands moving over the frets, his keen eyes firmly on Kitsaun and me, never letting us slip.
Dad had given us straight backs and strong handshakes, and he had taught us to look people directly in the eye. He was the last King of the generation that bore us. I felt a shattering emptiness left by the departure of Dad—a steadfast, dependable model of courage in my life. It was inevitable, part of humankind's trail, and I faced being the grown-up now. I stood in the presence of his flowering soul after he exhaled his last earthly breath and felt him lightly touch my heart.
Dad embodied all of the melodies that were important to me: power, Blackness, loving everyone no matter what their station in life, and upholding Truth. From the day he stood outside San Miguel Elementary whistling a song of freedom while he waited to hold my hand, he hovered over my life, teaching me to be an individual. I can feel him today. He has woven multifaceted threads of brilliance into the heritage I pass on to my children and the world.
Life burns a pattern no one can predict. Gurus try. Preachers prophesy. The wind moves the flames that completely incinerate one tree yet leave another untouched right at its side. Dad's death imbued our family with momentary pallor. He and Mom were the babies of their clans' five children, both the only ones remaining—and now Dad is gone. His legacy of song, the tenor vibrato in his voice and the sweet strumming on his guitar, are seeds planted in Kitsaun and me, Salvador, Stella, Angelica, and his son-in-law, Carlos. His sense of justice and individuality, joined with Mom's bravery and disregard for the ignorance of others, lives in us. Dad led with his chest out, noble and ready to defend all that he believed. He was an ultra-cool blues musician whose innovative style influenced many. We stand tall with his boldness.
There are times when Carlos plays his guitar and I hear Dad in his notes, like jewels of love. I heard it the night Archbishop Desmond Tutu and his beautiful wife, Leah, sat in our home. Carlos, with Chester on keyboard, played “Victory Is Won,” which Carlos wrote after hearing the archbishop speak of black South Africans' transcendence of the torture and oppression they endured during apartheid.
And in Florida, on Carlos's birthday, I stood on the side of the stage as a cake was taken out to him. Carlos blew out the candles and began the beautiful ballad “Apache,” which introduces “Smooth,” and then raised his right arm, guitar pick in hand, sustaining the note, and touched his heart, reaching his arm out to me. “I love you,” he mouthed, bowing deeply. I bowed to him and mouthed, “I love you.” Such a sweet, gentle gesture of deep waters, years together, the landscape of our marriage. Lifetimes of power sustained each note, producing waves of tones—some sharp, most soft and full. Carlos's butterscotch fingers bent the steel strings, pushing against the frets and causing notes to stream from the hard-body guitar and stop my breath. His playing is a crying sound that climbs in pitch, then descends with the slow vibrato of seeds shaken in an African gourd. Every note is chosen with the hope that in the listener it will sing a story, spark a journey to goodness and mercy.
When I look back at my life and compare it to what I had imagined it would be, it has been a strenuous journey along a mountainous path with breathtaking views. I was taught to look toward heaven to find God, but I searched my own heart and found light, joy, and God's breath of truth inside me. I believe in the connectedness of us all with our own luminosity humming a story of truth and love in the space between the stars. What glows, even in the dark, is the power of Divine Presence.
Portions of who I am have died hundreds of times. Whenever I transcend an outdated belief or change my focus and expand my dreams, I become a new person with a transfigured body. My family's history tells me to value the incontrovertible truth of my strengths, foibles, choices, and vision. I am a bridge to my parents and the generations of humans who have come to earth to learn what life is truly about. It is not material riches or perishable wealth. Life is good works, art, faith, and love— with people of all nations moving through sky and clouds, drinking the nectar of God. Life is believing that within each of us lies every answer to the questions of the universe, that the unquenchable fire of our existence is within our grasp if we only open our hearts.
Angelica wrote this poem about my dad three years after he died. She never knew her grandfather before his stroke when he walked with the stealth of a panther, nor had she the privilege of hearing his resonant tenor voice in song. Yet their bond was tender and immense, and she embodies his spirit.
SK Blues
as he grew older
he smelled fresher more pure
like a baby
cozy in the mother's arms
his scent lingered in the air
even when he was miles away
as he went out
i came in
as he spoke less
i spoke more
he is in me
his eyes soft like a bunny
his embrace warm like his easy chair
in front of the fire
his dark-as-dark-gets skin
worn and yet
still as tender as his granddaughter's heart
his gentle-as-the-breeze hand
resting on top of his wife's
i catch myself
sitting watching the giants
winning another game
just like he and i used to do
i find myself
shuffling my knuckles
just like he used to do
and i cry
because i know
that he is in me
Angelica Santana
September 4, 2003
campesino farmer
chile relleños cheese-stuffed chili pepper fried in egg batter
cuidando take care of, to care for
horchata rice beverage, with sugar and sweet spices
muñeca doll
niño child, infant
tío; tíos uncle; uncles
tía; tías aunt; aunts
Virgen the Virgin; Virgin Mary
zócalo public square
I am grateful to many friends who have supported me in telling this story. Melba Patillo Beals started me on the journey. My writing sisters, Susan Adelle and Judy He-bert, lived through countless drafts. Natalie Goldberg gave me writing practice. Rob Wilder graciously read an early version.
My parents Saunders and Jo Frances King, and my sister Kitsaun King, gave me love to stand on.
Thanks to Jillian Manus, my agent, and Melody Guy, my wise editor, for believing in my voice.
A CONVERSATION WITH DEBORAH SANTANA
Ballantine Books: The title has a mysterious
beauty to it. Where did it come from?
Deborah Santana: Space Between the Stars came from an essay by Norman Vincent Peale in his Guideposts magazine. The phase struck me as where I was—a woman in between men who outshone me because of their fame, and my struggle to be seen and heard in the world. In 2000, I read what Don Miguel Ruiz said about the ether between the stars being the medium of transportation through which information moves. I stepped from my shadow and felt validated as a mover of light and truth.
BB: What inspired you to begin your memoir?
DS: I began writing it to stimulate my mind and keep myself in a creative process of growth. I have always handled our family business affairs, and felt the need to cultivate my creative side. I have loved writing since childhood, so writing was the natural creative avenue.
BB: How long did it take you to complete?
DS: Seven years.
BB: Does it cover your whole life, or specific portions only?
DS: Space Between the Stars brushstrokes my whole life through the year 2000. However, it specifically focuses on the most compelling and haunting memories of my life.
BB: What do you feel is your book's central message?
DS: The path of defining and illuminating myself as an individual and strong woman is the theme of the memoir. It is my story of understanding life and developing a purpose for myself within the context of culture and family. The ultimate message is that life is about love and art and what we do with our time to sustain the earth and other souls living here.
BB: You've said that the book addresses women's issues, taking your own experiences and presenting them in a way that will speak to women universally. Explain the genesis of that.
DS: I grew up in the '50s and '60s, when women were just beginning to identify their strength in the world and the power we had without being attached to men. There was a time of struggle for many of us who were raised without many examples of women leaders and revolutionaries. My memoir explores this search for my own independence, voice, and identity.
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